


Good Omens Drabbles/Kinkmeme Prompts

by xpityx



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M, Ratings in chapters, warnings in chapter, Перевод на русский | Translation in Russian
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-15
Updated: 2019-08-07
Packaged: 2020-06-28 17:13:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19816825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xpityx/pseuds/xpityx
Summary: 1) Aziraphale, Crowley, and a kotatsu (gen, fluff)2) Aziraphale/Crowley, overwhelming sex (explicit, fluff)3) Aziraphale/Crowley, Praise Kink and Safeword Usage (explicit)4) Lucifer/Crowley Dub-con, size difference, sort of cock-warming (so very explicit)5) Aziraphale/Crowley, Major character death ('who dies and who destroys a city in their grief' prompt)





	1. The Kotatsu (gen)

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Бесоёбство](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21085694) by [MilvaBarring](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MilvaBarring/pseuds/MilvaBarring)
  * Translation into Русский available: [Стоп-слово](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21097142) by [MilvaBarring](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MilvaBarring/pseuds/MilvaBarring)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbeta'd
> 
> Prompt [here](https://good-omens-kink.dreamwidth.org/616.html?thread=238184#cmt238184)
> 
> The house I describe in the fic is an actual house I used to live in... it was SO COLD.

  
  
  
  
“Crowley.”  
  
“It’s historical! A geisha once lived here!”  
  
“Crowley.”  
  
“You love history! Look at all this lovely history, Angel.”  
  
“Crowley, my dear: it’s freezing. I think it might actually be warmer outside.”  
  
Heaven knew where Crowley had gotten the house. It was a tiny, two-floor wooden construction with an ancient squat toilet and no bath. Aziraphale had been to the local public baths three times already, mostly in an effort to warm up. The stairs were so steep he feared falling down them and accidentally discorporating every morning, and the second floor balcony was only accessible by a rickety trap door that could be pulled down over said murder stairs.  
  
Crowley loved it, for some reason. Aziraphale thought that perhaps it was because it shared the same lack of liveability as his apartment in London, though at the other end of the scale in terms of age.  
  
When Crowley had suggested they go stay at his house in Tokyo, this was not what he had imagined.  
  
“You know if there’s an earthquake we’re doomed?” He asked.  
  
Crowley rolled his eyes, “Angel, ignoring the fact that you are actually _an Angel_ , if you were ever worried about the structural integrity of the place you could simply step off the balcony into next door.”  
  
He was right, but that didn’t make Aziraphale any less entitled to his perfectly reasonable sulk.  
  
“Come here,” Crowley said, holding up the side of an awful orange, floral blanket.  
  
Aziraphale regarded the low table, the thick quilt, and the glow of the electric heater underneath. It looked like a fire hazard.  
  
Crowley wafted the edge impatiently. “Come on, Angel, I’m letting out all the heat here.”  
  
Aziraphale folded himself into the space next to Crowley, his legs under the heavy blanket. It was in fact considerably warmer under the kotatsu, but he knew from experience that they were now stuck there for the entire evening as it was far too cold everywhere else to leave it’s warmth.  
  
“Well, we are stuck here now,” he announced, in case Crowley hadn’t realised.  
  
Crowley, well, there was no other word for it: he wiggled himself further under the table, leaning back against the floor chair that creaked alarmingly at it’s mistreatment. He then folded himself in half so he could put his head in Aziraphale’s lap, his eyes closed. He gave a slightly more demanding wiggle, and Aziraphale obediently began stroking his hair.  
  
He was looking forward to getting to the point where they didn’t first need to freeze their metaphorical nether bits off before Crowley would demand cuddles, but until then at least they had the kotatsu.


	2. Overwhelming Sex (explicit)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Un-beta'd
> 
> Original prompt [here](https://good-omens-kink.dreamwidth.org/616.html?thread=82536#cmt82536)
> 
> I saw the "greek ideal" idea for Zira in a Tumblr post somewhere, I think. If anyone knows what I'm talking about/has a link to the post please let me know so I can link to it.

Crowley’d had sex before of course: it was fun, and felt quite nice, and was often silly. He’d experimented with a few of the more common configurations of anatomy and partner(s) and on the whole thought it was not a bad way to pass the time. Better than cricket, that was for sure.  
  
Aziraphale had admitted—after two bottles of Masumi sake—that he’d had sex the once and found the whole thing a little sweaty and odd. He assured Crowley that he was eager to try with him so it was inevitable that they had ended up here: in Aziraphale’s slightly dusty bedroom, Crowley trying to remove his socks while Aziraphale refused to let go of him long enough to do so. It took Crowley a distressingly long time to remember that he could do the job with a click of his fingers, which he promptly did—removing all his remaining clothing but leaving Aziraphale to decide when and how he wanted to get rid of his own.  
  
Crowley had Plans. Good Plans, Nice Plans. Plans that showed off the skills he’d picked up over the millennia, skills that were designed to prove to that Aziraphale that there was more to sex than the sweat. The trouble was he was having difficulty remembering them at this precise moment in time.  
  
Aziraphale ran his hands down Crowley’s back and palmed his ass. Crowley let out a little moan, before jerking back in horror.  
  
“Crowley?”  
  
Crowley blinked both sets of eyelids, a little disconcerted that apparently his form was capable of making sounds without his express permission.  
  
“Do you want to…” He twirled his wrist to indicate Aziraphale’s continued lack of nudity, hoping to distract him from the involuntary noise thing.  
  
“Oh yes, of course.”  
  
Aziraphale made a sharp, dismissive gesture, and all his clothes disappeared (undoubtedly hanging themselves up somewhere). He reached for Crowley, who allowed himself to be reeled back into the circle of Aziraphale’s arms. This time when Aziraphale put his hands on him he was able to keep any moaning to himself as they slowly made their way to the bed.  
  
Crowley, despite being taller, somehow ended up in Aziraphale’s lap—his legs splayed around the angel’s hips. Crowley was pretty certain that Aziraphale had once decided the Greek ideal was the pinnacle of all things penis-related and had never bothered to update since: even hard against his stomach it was not terribly imposing, and Crowley wondered if he’d be able to fit the whole thing in his mouth. He was just debating if he should flip them and do exactly that (he could do wicked things with his tongue) when Aziraphale seemingly decided that he’d gotten the hang of this kissing thing and that it was time to go exploring. He kissed his way down Crowley’s neck, biting lightly at the muscle where his shoulder began. Crowley leant back to give him better access, writhing in Aziraphale’s lap as he reached his nipples. He made himself still, panting slightly, trying to claw back a little control. This was starting to get ridiculous: he could feel how wet he was. He hadn’t even been aware that his cunt _could_ get wet by itself, without a direct order to do so.  
  
“Can you, I need…”  
  
A small part of Crowley, forever a bystander to the enormous stupidity he had displayed over the millennia, shook his head at his own incoherence.  
  
“Of course,” Aziraphale said, his easy understanding making Crowley shiver.  
  
Aziraphale bought one hand between them, exploring the wet folds of Crowley’s cunt. Crowley pushed himself further forward onto Aziraphale’s lap, aware he was making small noises every time Aziraphale stroked further inwards but unable to stop.  
  
“Oh yes,” Aziraphale said as he pushed a finger into Crowley, who bit down hard on his lip. He tried to console himself that Aziraphale seemed equally enamoured with what they were doing, but _the point_ was… Aziraphale crooked his finger just right and Crowley forgot what the point was and instead ground himself down onto Aziraphale's hand with abandon.  
  
“Fuck. Another, Angel,” he demanded through gritted teeth.  
  
Aziraphale obliged, showing considerable dexterity for someone who claimed to have only had sex once in his life. Crowley rocked himself forward, his hands vice-like on Aziraphale’s upper arms. He was going to come in a moment, he realised. They’d been fucking for approximately twelve minutes and he was going to come. He stopped his movements, head tucked into Aziraphale’s shoulder and his thighs shaking with how close he’d been to orgasm.  
  
“Crowley?”  
  
Crowley licked his lips, trying to think of words that weren’t _please_ and _fuck me_.  
  
“I want…” He tried.  
  
“Me inside of you?” Aziraphale asked. Crowley nodded from where he was tucked into Aziraphale’s shoulder and hoped he wasn’t blushing too obviously.  
  
Aziraphale rolled them over, somehow managing to move them up the bed as he did so. Crowley watched wide-eyed as he sat back on his heels and sucked two fingers into his mouth, savouring the taste of Crowley’s juices. Crowley wanted to close his legs, wanted to hide how very wet he was, how worked up over a little fingering.  
  
“Beautiful,” Aziraphale murmured, guiding himself into Crowley. He leaned forward, holding his weight on one arm over Crowley as they found their rhythm.  
  
It didn’t take long before Crowley was close again. They were fucking in the missionary position, for—for _someone’s_ sake, he should not be overwhelmed. He should not be gasping, digging his heels into Aziraphale’s ass, pulling him into him. Aziraphale was murmuring sweet nothings into his ear the whole time, about how wet Crowley was, how good it felt, how perfect. It should have been trite, but Crowley could feel tears rolling down the side of his face into his hair, could hear himself begging for more, for Aziraphale not to let him go. _Never, my love, never,_ Aziraphale replied, and Crowley arched up off the bed with the force of his orgasm, the lights in the bedroom flickering overhead. Aziraphale collapsed half on top of him, their breathing in sync.  
  
He blinked a little as Aziraphale touched careful fingers to his face, to the tell tale tear tracks that Crowley had forgotten to wipe away.  
  
“Oh my dear, did I hurt you?”  
  
“No,” Crowley replied, too bewildered to be anything other honest, “it was just—it was just _so good_. I’ve never, I mean, it was never like that before…”  
  
Aziraphale kissed him chastely.  
  
“I think I know why,” he said, smiling sweetly down at Crowley, his wings splayed wide and soft white feathers muffling the sharp edges of the world.


	3. A/C, praise kink, explict

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Original prompt](https://good-omens-kink.dreamwidth.org/616.html?thread=456808#cmt456808)

He was kneeling on the floor. Well, more precisely he was kneeling on a cushion that Aziraphale had found in a very specific type of catalogue—an actual, physical catalogue, which Crowley thought had gone the way of the Dodo—that allowed Crowley to kneel on it for several hours ‘without putting undue stress on the joints of the knees’. Crowley had commented that the point was for him to be somewhat out of his comfort zone, but Aziraphale had replied that the only discomfort should come directly from his own hands and words. Crowley had promptly shut up about the cushion.  
  
His arms were tied in front of him, bound to each other in such a way that he couldn’t reach much of anything. Sometimes Aziraphale put a blindfold on him, but not today. Today he could see every detail of Aziraphale’s beautifully put together outfit: waistcoat and shirt buttoned all the way up—only his rolled up sleeves gave any indication he was doing something other than sort books. He would stay like that throughout, uninterested as he was in sex in and of itself. Crowley had worried at first that he did this for Crowley’s sake alone, but he knew now it was not even a compromise: Aziraphale got something he needed from this as much as Crowley did.  
  
“Good boy,” Aziraphale said, which was just about as much as Crowley could tolerate at this stage in proceedings. No matter how many times they did this, Aziraphale never failed to build up slowly, never rushing him into something he wasn’t ready for.  
  
“You’re doing so well,” he added, and Crowley felt his throat thicken and his eyes start to well up. He fought against it: it was far too early to be breaking down.  
  
He was exquisitely aware of Aziraphale’s hands on him, stroking down to his hard cock and taking him in hand. He handled him firmly, as this was the third time they had done this so far this evening. Crowley kept his eyes on Aziraphale, trying to hold back the orgasm he could feel building already.  
  
So close, he breathed deeply, clawing back control. Just a few more seconds, he could hold on for a few more—  
  
“Stop!” He gasped.  
  
Instantly Aziraphale took his hands of him and Crowley leant forward, leaning his forehead against Aziraphale’s shoulder.  
  
“So good, so beautiful,” Aziraphale murmured, touching him everywhere apart from his straining erection. “My beautiful boy, you are so worthy of being cared for, so worthy of love.”  
  
Crowley was crying now, silent tears falling down his face and staining Aziraphale’s shirt. He would be sobbing by the end, free of anything except the knowledge, the surety of Aziraphale’s love for him. It would last to the end of the afterglow, then fade into his usual doubts and fears.  
  
“Come back to me, my love, you are here with me and I love you so much. I love how you give yourself into my hands, such perfect trust. I cannot think of anything I desire more than your trust.”  
  
Crowley slowly pulled himself upright and met Aziraphale’s gaze.  
  
“Ready?”  
  
Crowley nodded.  
  
“And what are you to say when you’re close to orgasm?”  
  
“Stop,” Crowley croaked, feeling like he had sobbed away his voice already.  
  
“That’s exactly right my dearest,” Aziraphale said, his hand again on Crowley’s erection, gripping him tight and pulling him closer and closer to release with every sure stroke.  
  
It was quicker this time, and Crowley cried harder as he recovered, his thighs shaking from being denied for the fourth time.  
  
“Oh my dearest love, my greatest desire. How good you are for me, how good you are for all the world. How careful and loving you are, and how I long for you always.”  
  
Crowley sobbed, the words harder to take than any denied orgasm.  
  
“Shall I let you come this time?” Aziraphale asked.  
  
“Please,” Crowley said into the warmth of Azirphale’s body. “Please.”  
  
“Can you tell me?”  
  
“I’m good, and—and you love me,” Crowley forced out.  
  
“Good, well done,” Aziraphale took hold of his cock once more, “can you tell me again?”  
  
“I’m, I’m good and you love me.”  
  
“Tell me you’re worthy of my love,” Aziraphale demanded, softly.  
  
“I’m,” Crowley hiccuped on a sob, “I’m worthy of your love.”  
  
He was so close, so close, but Aziraphale hadn’t said that he could come, so he dug his fingers into his arms and held on. Only a little while longer, he told himself.  
  
“You are, you are. Tell me again.”  
  
“I’m worthy of your love,” Crowley wasn't even sure the words made sense, so garbled were they.  
  
“Yes, my love. So worthy - of my love and Her’s.”  
  
Crowley froze for a moment, the shock of what Aziraphale had said pulling him out of the safe warmth that Aziraphale had built around them, then his orgasm hit him, pulling him over the edge without his conscious consent.  
  
He collapsed awkwardly in Aziraphale’s lap, not able to use his hands to stop himself. The world was sharply in focus around him: his nudity, the tears on his face and how difficult it was to take a full breath.  
  
“Crowley?” Azirphale said, uncertain.  
  
“Plastic duck,” Crowley made himself say, desperate for space, for distance from what Aziraphale had said.  
  
Aziraphale instantly moved from under Crowley and undid his bindings with a snap of his fingers. Crowley pushed himself unsteadily to his feet, aware he was shaking but unsure what to do about it. He made his way to the bathroom, trailing loose rope from his arms. He shut the door firmly behind him, then stared at the space as if he’d never seen it before. He’d never had to clean himself up before: Azirphale had always done it.  
  
He wiped at the tears that were still falling, trying to work out how the damn shower worked. He wrestled with the inordinate number of taps and dials for a moment before remembering that he could clean himself up with a click of his fingers, which he promptly did so. He was still shaking, however. A distant part of himself reasoned that the shaking must be emotional in cause for him not to be able to stop.  
  
Still no sound from Aziraphale. That was how safe words were supposed to work, he told himself. You need to go ask if you need anything.  
  
He just, he couldn’t stop shaking.  
  
He took his bathrobe of the hook behind the door and tied the belt firmly before opening the door that led into the bedroom. The cushion had been moved out of sight and Azirphale stood on the other side of the bed, as far as he could get from the bathroom without actually leaving the room.  
  
“Can you, can you just hold me please?” Crowley asked, his eyes trained on the tartan rug that lived on Aziraphale’s side of the bed.  
  
Aziraphale came round the bed and held out his arms and Crowley stepping gratefully into the embrace. At first Aziraphale just held him, but gradually he began to move his hands, wearing one into Crowley’s hair and the other rubbing up and down his back.  
  
“Can we lie down?” Crowley asked.  
  
“Of course.”  
  
Aziraphale led him to the bed, then let him get comfortable before curling up behind him.  
  
“It was,” Crowley searched for a way of explaining it without using the words, “it was what you said about Her.”  
  
Aziraphale paused in his stroking of Crowley’s hair for a moment.  
  
“Ah. I’m sorry - I was obviously not paying close attention to my words. Caught up in the moment and such, thought that is of course no excuse. I have thought something similar many times, but I did not mean to share it with you.”  
  
Crowley nodded, taking a deep, unsteady breath.  
  
It was quiet in the room again, just the soft sounds of Aziraphale running his hands through his hair.  
  
“Can you tell me again?” Crowley asked, quietly. It was the only thing he could think of to show that he still trusted Aziraphale, still trusted him to say the things he needed to hear, the things he _could_ hear.  
  
“I love you,” Aziraphale replied, unhesitating.  
  
“Again.”  
  
“I love you.”  
  
“Again...”


	4. Crowley/Lucifer, dub-con, explicit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EXTREMELY DUBIOUS CONSENT!!
> 
> [Original prompt.](https://good-omens-kink.dreamwidth.org/616.html?thread=418920#cmt418920)

He’d heard it from Hastuer who’d heard it from Abigar that Lucifer was in A Mood. The problem was that no-one seemed willing to describe to him exactly what kind of mood Lucifer was in. He’d asked three of Lucifer’s more gregarious under secretaries and each of them had said something along the lines of _you know_ and then had made a vague gesture with their hands/tentacles.  
  
Crowley hated dealing with Management unprepared.  
  
“You asked for me, you Evilness?” He said, bowing low enough that it seemed genuinely respectful but with enough flair to be almost mocking. Crowley’s bows had taken decades to perfect.  
  
There was a worrying pause. Crowley looked up from under a sheaf of hair to see Lucifer staring at him, perplexed.  
  
“You’re not Crocell,” he stated.  
  
Crowley felt an odd mix of terror and relief. It was the kind of feeling one could only experience in Hell.  
  
“Well observed, your Greatness, but I saw her only moments ago, perhaps I can—”  
  
“No,” Lucifer interrupted, and Crowley shut his mouth so quickly he bit his tongue, “you’ll do. Come here.”  
  
Crowley pulled himself out of his bow and tried to remember how to walk. He very much wanted to slither at this moment in time. In fact, all his higher brain functions were pointing towards BEING A SNAKE.  
  
He stopped at the foot of the dias, Lucifer towering above him, his horns casting twisting shadows on the wall.  
  
“Strip.”  
  
Crowley swallowed, then did as he was told. He looked at the filthy steps that were the only option for putting his clothes and sighed, blinking as an overstuffed chair appeared next to him. Risking a look up at Lucifer, he saw that he was looking back with a frown. Crowley quickly stripped off the rest of his clothes and dumped them on the chair.  
  
Lucifer raised an eye ridge expectantly, and Crowley walked up the stairs of the dias, the steps themselves just high enough to be an uncomfortable stretch with each step. He Made An Effort as he may as well if he was going to be naked, so his newly formed dangly bits flapped around in a most unflattering manner.  
  
He looked up at Lucifer, big, red and bored, who twirled one blunt-tipped finger in the universal sign for ‘turn around’.  
  
Crowley duly did so, wondering if he should tighten his asshole a little in order to make this over more quickly.  
  
“You’ll be plenty tight enough for me, little one,” Lucifer growled and Crowley’s dangly bits attempted to crawl back into his body. He forced himself to relax, even when big hands folded around his hips and lifted him into Lucifer’s lap.  
  
He half kneeled, half crouched on the chair, his legs splayed uncomfortably wide over Lucifer’s legs. Lucifer was suddenly naked, and there was something like a thick steel bar tucked up behind him, hot and pulsing. Crowley tried very hard not to think about it inside him, A) because it was never going to fit and B) because thinking about his boss’s dick was probably against company policy.  
  
Lucifer chuckled, the sound echoing through the empty room.  
  
“Don’t worry: it’s no fun if you don’t enjoy it,” he said, in an apparent attempt to ease Crowely’s mind. Then a greasy, blunt finger was pushing at his entrance. Crowley stayed very still, bracing himself with his hands on Lucifer’s knees. Lucifer allowed him a moment to adjust and then, far two soon, he was pushing a second finger in next to the first. Crowley tried to keep his breathing under control but before long he was gasping, caught in some borderland between pleasure and pain. His thighs trembled with the effort of not moving, though he wasn’t quite sure if he wanted to move away or impale himself more fully on the two thick fingers inside of him.  
  
Lucifer pulled his fingers out with a wet sound and Crowley flinched as more oil was poured directly into his gaping hole.  
  
“Knees up, that’s it,” Lucifer coaxed him into a crouching position before picking him up with his hands under his buttocks and positioning him over his cock, slowly sliding inside of him. Even with what felt like an entire bucket of oil and plenty of preparation it was Too Much: Crowley cried out, his own erection flagging.  
  
Finally, after an age of being pulled down—inexorable inch by inch—Crowley was fully seated in Lucifer’s lap. He could feel every vein, every twitch of the cock inside of him, and he squirmed a little before remembering whose cock he was sat on and stopped. With his feet braced on Lucifer’s thighs he couldn’t get enough leverage to move even if he wanted to.  
  
Eventually he relaxed a little. Maybe this was all Lucifer wanted from him, a nice, quiet cock-warmer. He could do quiet, he could do quiet just fine. He shifted a little, then hissed at the pressure it put on his prostate. His own cock started to harden again.  
  
“Fuck yourself on me,” Lucifer commanded.  
  
“I—,” Crowley licked his lips and tried again. “I can’t move.”  
  
“You’re a clever one I hear, you’ll work it out.”  
  
Crowley thought about it for a moment then leaned forward a little, moving his feet to either side of Lucifer’s knees. With his hands braced he could just get enough leverage to push himself up a few inches then let himself back down. He fully seated himself a little quicker than he’d meant to and groaned, not entirely sure if he liked the feeling or not.  
  
He very much did not want Lucifer to start setting the pace though, so he forced himself up again, getting a good six inches off Lucifer’s cock before pushing himself back down. He did it again, as fast as he could stand, fucking himself on about half of Lucifer’s massive cock.  
  
He couldn’t come untouched, yet he didn’t want to risk touching himself in case he wasn’t allowed. He was soon panting though, the pleasure outweighing the pain enough that he could feel an orgasm building in the base of his spine.  
  
“Think you’re going to come on my cock, do you?” Lucifer rumbled in his ear, apparently not quite as undone as Crowley was by the fucking.  
  
“N—No!” Crowley gasped, “I, I can’t.”  
  
Lucifer chuckled. “Well then, let’s see if we can’t do something about that.” He put his hands under Crowley’s ass, pulling him up seven or eight inches then dropping him down again.  
  
Crowley cried out, his cock jumping, apparently now unsure of the difference between pain and pleasure.  
  
“Again?” Lucifer asked, already lifting him up.  
  
“Fuc—,” Crowley tried to swear, but it turned into more of a wail half way through.  
  
Lucifer stood up, his arm an iron band around Crowley’s waist. Crowley’s feet came down to Lucifer’s ankles, so he could do nothing but dangle in Lucifer’s grip as he held him in place and fucked him. He was loose enough that it wasn’t the agony he would have expected, but Lucifer’s pace was brutal and it was all Crowley could do to hang on. Finally Lucifer came, filling Crowley’s abused passage with hot come that dripped down his leg.  
  
He pulled out and placed Crowley back down, who instantly fell into a heap on the floor. He could feel come leaking out of his ass, but his own erection was insistent.  
  
Lucifer crouched down in front of him, and Crowley tilted his head back to look up at him.  
  
“Ask me nicely, and I’ll let you deal with that.”  
  
Crowley shook his head, sweat drops falling from his face as he did so. He might have just been ridden hard by his boss, but there was no way he was going to beg to come. He still had his pride. Or, at least, he still had a sliver of it.  
  
Lucifer laughed his dark laugh again.  
  
“Still so spirited, I like it.”  
  
He picked Crowely up like a doll and placed him back in his lap. Reaching behind him he slipped two fingers back into Crowley’s ass, taking for his cock in his other hand. It took less than a minute and Crowley was coming, caught between the thick fingers in his ass and the massive hand that dwarfed his cock.  
  
Lucifer patted his thigh as one would a favoured pet.  
  
“Off you go then,” he said, apparently in a much better mood than when they started.  
  
Crowley staggered down the steps and haphazardly put his clothes back on, heedless of the mess he was making.  
  
“Oh, and send in whichever idiot got you and Crocell mixed up. I’d like a word.”  
  
Crowley nodded, and made his—rather slow—escape.


	5. MCD

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH!
> 
> for your otp thing: who dies and who destroys a whole city (er, realm?) in grief

Aziraphale sits on the bench until hours past their meeting time, until darkness creeps up from the lake and over the trees and the streetlamps come on.

He can’t bare to look at his own hands, curled soft and plump over his sensible trousers. He had faded back to his customary form some time ago, but still he sits, as if moving from the bench would confirm what he already knows: Crowley is gone. 

Gone into the dust that God, in Her wisdom, had created so very long ago. The dust from which She had made the stars and all bright things. From which She had created the angel Raphael, who had become Crawley, then Crowley. Who had become Aziraphale’s best friend.

A sob catches him by surprise. He takes a breath and the streetlamps either side of him waver uncertainly. 

When Aziraphale stands the darkness is pushed back into dips and puddles as he unspools his wings: two great curves of light that split again to make four. 

There was a sword, he thinks, and it appears in his hand: it’s flames red and bloody.

Mercy was Crowley’s gift but Crowley is gone, and Aziraphale will show none.


End file.
